Chapter 9

“If it isn’t the FirstMother of the Tenders, come to grace my simple establishment with her grand presence,” the shopkeeper said. “What will it be today?”

“Maybe today I’ll finally turn you into hoptoad,” Melanine replied. Out of habit she looked over her shoulder, making sure no one had heard what Ronse said. Qarath was a reasonably safe place for Tenders, but it was still best to be careful, especially these days with the strange rumors going around. Frightened people liked nothing so much as a scapegoat and she didn’t feel like being one.

“Last week it was a mole,” Ronse teased. “You should make up your mind.”

“So long as it’s something that can’t speak,” Melanine replied. “You talk too much, even for a shopkeeper.”

Ronse laughed. “It’s a curse all the men in my family have. That’s what my wife used to say.”

Melanine grunted, but didn’t reply. Ronse’s smile faded. “That bad, is it?” He set down the rag he’d been dusting with and came around the counter. “There’s always rumors.” He took a chair from the corner of the room and set it out for her.

Melanine sat down gratefully and leaned her cane against her leg. It seemed her back hurt more every day. Getting old wasn’t much fun. “You’re right, but this time it’s different. These are more than just rumors.”

The rest of Ronse’s good humor disappeared. “What are you saying?”

Once again Melanine looked around the shop. Candles filled every available inch of shelf and counter space. A few of them were colored or molded into fanciful shapes, but most were the dull golden brown of simple tallow. Ronse’s shop didn’t see much beyond the poorer folks of Qarath. As before, there was no one there to hear her, but a lifetime of caution was too ingrained to ignore now.

“I can hear it in the Song. Something bad is happening. Something really bad.” She spoke frankly. She and Ronse had known each other for almost thirty years. He wasn’t a follower of Xochitl, but he was an old friend and she could trust him. She’d healed his son of the spotted sickness all those years ago and Ronse wasn’t the sort to forget.

Ronse pulled up a chair opposite her and sat down. “What do you think it is?”

For a moment Melanine felt too weary to answer. Why did this have to happen now? She was old. She’d be lucky to make it another two winters. All she wanted was to finish her life in peace. “It frightens me even to say it,” she whispered hoarsely. She took a deep breath. “I think the prison is breaking. Melekath is returning to the world.”

Ronse said nothing for a long moment, a confused look on his face. “Who’s Melekath?” he said at last.

“He is the one who betrayed Xochitl. She warred on him and imprisoned him and his followers in the earth.”

“Oh,” he said. “That Melekath.” Clearly he still did not know who she was talking about. But that wasn’t a surprise. Few knew who Melekath was anymore. Much had been forgotten. “That’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked.

Melanine nodded.

After a bit he said, “Just know you can come here, any time of the day or night. I’ll help you however I can.”

Melanine leaned forward and patted him on the knee. For a moment the doom which had been haunting her the past few weeks lifted somewhat. Ronse meant what he said, even if it cost him his life. His wife was dead for three years now and his son lived on the other side of the city with his own family.

Both turned as the door to the shop opened. A man with white hair entered, carrying a black staff. His clothing was ordinary, as were his features, but there was something unusual about him, something that didn’t quite fit.

The second his eyes fixed on Melanine the sense of doom came rushing back.

Melanine struggled to her feet as he approached, for some reason reluctant to face him sitting down. She leaned heavily on her cane and stared into his gray eyes. She knew before he spoke that this was no ordinary man.

“FirstMother,” the stranger said. It was not a question.

Melanine nodded fractionally.

“I need to speak to you and your order.”

“Not something you can just tell me then, I take it?”

His eyes bored into her. She had the curious sensation that he was digging through the depths of her life, judging her in a way she’d never been judged before. Then he seemed to pull back and she knew without a doubt that she had been found wanting.

“Is something wrong, Melanine?” Ronse asked. He’d stood too, and was twisting his cleaning rag in his hands. The look in his eyes said he wanted to run, but his loyalty to his old friend was too strong.

“Yes, there is,” she replied, turning to him. “But there is nothing you can do about it.” She clasped his arm briefly. “Thank you. For everything.”

Without saying another word, she followed the stranger out of the shop.

          

Melanine led the stranger out into the sunlight. They passed through the trades quarter and down a side street into a meaner area. The streets were narrower here, the buildings jammed together, with filth piled along the edges. She made no attempt to speak to him as they walked and he remained silent. Who was he? she wondered. Why did he want to speak to the Tenders? She realized that she was in no hurry to find out. There was plenty of bad news in the world and she’d learned there was no need to rush toward it. It would come in its own bad time.

The street twisted and went down a short decline. A woman dumped a bucket of some brown liquid out of an upstairs window, narrowly missing the two of them. The FirstMother frowned, but the stranger didn’t seem to notice.

The street dead-ended at a rough dwelling, two stories tall, with heavy shutters over the windows and a stout door. Melanine FirstMother banged on the door with her cane. “Open up, Lenda!” she yelled.

There was the sound of footsteps, a bar being lifted, and at last the door opened.

“Here we are,” she said, leading the way inside. “Thank you, Lenda.” Lenda was a skinny woman with short brown hair and a lazy eye. She was staring at the stranger as if he had two heads.

“FirstMother, I…a man,” she said breathlessly. “You brought a man here. Why?”

Melanine shrugged. “He asked to come speak with us. Stop staring, girl. It’s rude.” She gave her a gentle push. “Go tell the others to meet in the common room. And bring some tea.” She watched Lenda scurry away. “She has a good heart, that one does. Just a little simple is all. She was living on the street when I found her. I couldn’t just leave her there now, could I?”

The stranger said nothing, but Melanine hadn’t really been talking to him anyway. Lately she talked to herself more and more. Another of the byproducts of getting old.

They walked down a short hallway that led to a fairly large room with a rough, scarred table in the middle. A lamp with a smoky chimney provided the only light, and not enough to reach the corners of the room. The floor was rough stone flags and there was a smell of old grease in the air. Lurking in the gloom at the other end of the room was a statue. Two women sat at the table, their heads together, speaking in murmurs. When the FirstMother and the stranger entered they sat back and looked up guiltily.

“FirstMother, we didn’t expect…” one started to say, rising. She had a long face and two of her lower teeth were missing. She broke off as she saw the stranger and her eyes widened. She shot a look at the other Tender with her—a stout woman with thick, muscular forearms and streaks of gray in her brown hair—but the other woman wasn’t looking at her. Her attention was fixed on their visitor.

“He wants to talk to us, Velma,” the FirstMother said. Stiffly she moved to the table and sat down. When did a simple walk become so hard?

They waited in silence then, the four of them, while the lamp flickered uneasily and mice scurried in the rafters overhead. The statue seemed to lean towards them. From somewhere down a hall a door creaked open and then slammed shut. There were scurrying footsteps. Voices and more doors and then they began to emerge, one after another, like rabbits coming out of their burrows, looking on the man in their midst with curiosity and fear. Finally, Lenda came into the room and said breathlessly, “I told them all.”

“Good,” Melanine said. “The tea, Lenda. Don’t forget the tea.” Lenda threw up her hands and hurried out again. To the stranger she said, “We are all yours. Speak.”

He stood at the edge of the light, the statue seeming to loom behind him, not speaking, only looking at them. Once again Melanine had the feeling he was measuring them. His gaze roamed over them one by one and each one shrank slightly in her chair as he found her wanting and moved on. Last was the stout woman with the gray streaks in her hair. She met his gaze as he stared at her for what seemed like a long time. “I am Lowellin,” he said finally, speaking to her. “Lowellin who was named Protector by Xochitl.”

Most of the Tenders only stared at him stupidly, aware that this name should mean something to them, but not knowing what it was. Their knowledge of who they were, their roots and history, had gone dim and gray in this battered age. The light of the Order of the Tenders of Xochitl was slowly but surely going out.

“So you say,” the stout woman replied. She might have been an attractive woman, in a strong, masculine sort of way, but years of hardship and disappointment had drawn the lines too deep on her face and her eyes held too much suspicion. Suspicion that surfaced now. “But we have only your word on this, don’t we? Why are you here, now?”

Lowellin’s eyes glittered faintly in the lamplight. He looked taller than Melanine remembered. He seemed almost to glow. “You know why I am here, Nalene. You have heard the dissonance in the flow of LifeSong. In your heart you know what it means.”

Nalene’s eyes widened. “No,” she whispered.

“What is he talking about?” Lenda asked, coming into the room with a kettle and several cups on a tray. “What’s ‘dissonance’?”

The other women exchanged worried looks but Melanine knew at least half did not know what the stranger was talking about. They were Tenders in name only, unable to hear more than the faintest whispers of LifeSong.

“The Book of Xochitl says the prison cannot be broken,” Nalene said, still staring at the stranger. The Book of Xochitl was the Tender holy book, written in the days shortly after Melekath and his spawn were defeated.

“In this, the Book is wrong,” he replied.

“Can someone please tell me what is going on?” Lenda asked irritably. “I’m confused.” She was still standing in the doorway holding the tray.

“Our visitor claims the prison is failing,” Melanine said. “He says Melekath will soon be free.”

Frightened babbling erupted around the table. Lenda gave a little cry and dropped the tray with a crash of broken pottery. Only Melanine and Nalene stayed quiet, watching the stranger. Finally, Melanine took her cane and banged on the table several times until they settled down.

“That’s better,” she said. “You sound like a flock of chickens, disturbed during the night.” She looked at the stranger again. “Go on.”

“I have come to find those who are ready to fight.”

“Fight?” Velma said. “What can we do?” There were nervous nods in agreement.

“Are you not the Tenders of Xochitl?” Lowellin challenged them in a booming voice. “Did not an army of Tenders march with Xochitl when She laid siege to Durag’otal? Did your order not help defeat Melekath before?”

“We call ourselves Tenders,” Nalene said bitterly. The perpetual frown on her face settled in deeper. Melanine had never liked Nalene. She was too cold, too angry. She ran roughshod over any who stood in her way. But she had grit; she had to give her that. She didn’t back down to anyone and she didn’t back down now. “But it’s only a name now that the Mother has withdrawn Her favor. If you really are Lowellin, you know that.”

“I do know that. But what has been lost could be reclaimed.”

“Is Xochitl coming back? To help us?” Lenda asked suddenly.

“No,” Lowellin replied.

Lenda’s face fell. “So that means She still doesn’t forgive us, doesn’t it?”

Dead silence greeted her words, and every eye went to Lowellin, hoping against hope that he would gainsay her. The Mother had been silent for so long now.

“Not yet,” Lowellin said. “But this is your chance. I offer you the return of power, though not the same power you once knew. Use it wisely this time and Xochitl will look favorably on the Tenders once again.”

“These are Xochitl’s words?” Melanine asked. “She told you to tell us this?”

“Do you question my right to speak for Her?” Lowellin demanded, looking at Melanine for the first time. “Do you know nothing of your own holy book?” The Book of Xochitl spoke of Lowellin as the mediator between the Tenders and their god. According to it, Xochitl spoke through him and he interceded on their behalf with Her.

“It has been a long time since you appeared to us. You did not once appear during all the dark years. How are we supposed to know if what was true then is still true now?”

Before Lowellin could reply, Nalene spoke up again. “You said our power will be different this time. How?”

Why are you so hungry for power? Melanine wanted to ask. Have you forgotten what happened before? The Tenders of Xochitl had been very powerful during the days of the Kaetrian Empire, but they had misused that power, let it seduce them so that they forgot the task set for them by Xochitl—to tend to all living things. It was generally believed by the Tenders that the reason Xochitl did not answer their prayers, why their power was gone, was because She was punishing them for what they had done.

“There are weapons out there, powerful enough even to kill a god. But they will not come without a price,” Lowellin said. “There will be pain. They may turn on you. Not everyone will be strong enough to wield one.”

Nalene raised her chin. “I am not afraid. I will do whatever it takes, whatever the Mother requires of me.” She swept the rest of them with a look that dared them to follow her. Most did not meet her eyes. They had been beaten down for too long.

Lowellin nodded. “It is this we must have if we are to win this war,” he said. “More like you.” He stood. “Think on what I have said. Think on who you are and what you will do to protect Life as you have sworn to.” He paused and swept them all with his gaze one more time.

“Think on what you will do to redeem yourselves in the eyes of Xochitl.”

          

When he was gone they sat around the table in silence. Melanine sat at one end of the table and Nalene at the other. It was still subtle, but Melanine noticed that most of the women had slightly altered their positions so that they were oriented toward Nalene. Melanine was too old to fight, she didn’t even know if she should fight, but she had already lost.

“I do not trust him,” Melanine said, knowing it was hopeless, but determined to say her piece anyway.

“You doubt he is Lowellin?” Nalene threw the words down the table at her, daring her.

“No,” Melanine admitted. “I think he is. But I still don’t trust him.”

“He was named Protector by Xochitl Herself,” said Velma. With her tongue she poked at the gaps where her lower teeth were missing. She was sitting at Nalene’s right hand. She followed Nalene in everything.

“Xochitl has been gone a very long time.”

“Meaning?” Nalene asked.

Melanine turned her palms up. “Things change. Who knows the will of the Mother anymore?”

“If anyone does, it must be the Protector,” Lenda said stoutly and then hesitated, looking at the others, wondering if she had spoken wrongly. Relief flooded her when others nodded in agreement.

“It says in the Book that the Mother trusted Lowellin over all others,” Velma added. She checked with Nalene to see if she approved, but Nalene was staring hard at Melanine.

“It also says that in the beginning it was Melekath who was closest to Xochitl. You know how that turned out.” According to the Book, Melekath became jealous after Xochitl created humankind. It was because of his jealousy that he created the curse known as the Gift, which he used to subvert those who came to be known as his Children.

That stopped them. More than one face creased in a frown as a Tender considered this new idea. But Melanine knew it would not last. The hatred and scorn their order had suffered for centuries had a very bitter flavor and what Lowellin offered was too sweet to be rejected.

“I think you are afraid,” Nalene said, spitting the words out as if they tasted bad. “You are old and afraid.” She looked at the others. “Lowellin said it would be painful. He said it would be hard. But look around you.” She gestured at the drab, dimly lit room. “When have our lives ever been anything but hard?” She fixed a hard gaze on Melanine once again.

“Now our chance has finally come. We can once again be something! I cannot speak for you, but as for me nothing can be more painful than what I live with every day.

“I will follow where the Protector leads. I will do everything he commands.” Then she began to recite the vows, the words the Tenders were supposed to begin every day with:

“I vow to pay any price, to make any sacrifice in fulfillment of my duties to Xochitl and all She has created.

“My life for the land, and all its creatures.

“This is the will of the Mother, which I will never again forget.”

By the time she reached the end, the rest had joined in with her and Melanine knew she had lost them. There were other things she could still say, but what was the point? What made her think she was right anyway? She said nothing as Nalene stood and left the room. She sat there alone as they silently filed out after her.

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